"I can best answer your question by telling you that the day after Jimmie Turnbull died Mr.Clymer sent for me," he began."I found Colonel McIntyre with him and was told that the Colonel had lost valuable securities left at the bank.These securities had been given by the treasurer of the bank to Jimmie Turnbull when he presented a letter from Colonel McIntyre instructing the bank to surrender the securities to Jimmie.""Well?" questioned Ferguson."Go on, sir.""That letter was a forgery." Kent sat back and watched the detective's rapidly changing expression."And no trace has been found of the Colonel's securities, last known to be in the possession of Turnbull.""Great heavens!" ejaculated Ferguson.
"Which was the forger - Turnbull or Rochester?"Kent shook a puzzled head."That is for us to discover," he said soberly."Colonel McIntyre contends that Turnbull forged the letter and stole the securities, then fearing his guilt would become known, committed still another crime - that of suicide, he could have swallowed a dose of aconitine while at the police court.""Well, I'll be - blessed!" ejaculated Ferguson."But if he was the forger how does that square with Rochester's peculiar behavior?
The checks bearing your forged signatures were presented, mind you, by Rochester after Turnbull's death?""It doesn't square," acknowledged Kent frankly."There is this to be said for Turnbull: he was the soul of honor, his affairs were found to be in excellent condition, he was drawing a good salary, his investments paying well - he did not need to acquire securities or money by resorting to forgery.""Whereas Philip Rochester was on the point of bankruptcy," remarked Ferguson."Do you suppose he forged Colonel McIntyre's letter and gave it to Turnbull, and the latter got the securities from the bank treasurer and handed them over to Rochester in good faith, supposing his room-mate would give the papers to Colonel McIntyre?"Kent nodded in agreement."It looks that way to me," he said gloomily."Philip Rochester stood well in the community, his law practice is large and lucrative, and if it had not been for his periods of idleness and - and" - hesitating - "passion for good living, he would never have run into debt.""But he got there." Ferguson's laugh was contemptuous."Adesperate man will do anything, Mr.Kent.""I know," Kent looked dubious."I would believe him guilty if it were not for the use of aconitine - that shows premeditation on the part of the murderer.""And why shouldn't Rochester plan Turnbull's murder ahead of the scene in the police court?" argued Ferguson."Wasn't he living in deadly fear of exposure? If he did not commit the murder, why did he run away? And if he is innocent, why doesn't he come forward and prove it?""He may not know that he is suspected of the crime," retorted Kent, rising."It is for us to find Rochester, and I suggest that we search this apartment thoroughly.""I have already done so," objected Ferguson."And there wasn't the faintest clew to his hiding place.""For all that I am not satisfied." Kent walked over and switched on another light."When I came here on Wednesday night I had a tussle with some man, but he escaped in the dark without my seeing him.I believe he was Rochester.""You are probably right." Ferguson crossed the room."And if he came back once, he may return again.Come ahead," and he plunged into the first bedroom.The two men subjected each room to an exhaustive search, but their labors were their only reward; except for an accumulation of dust, the apartment was undisturbed.They had reached the kitchenette-pantry when the gong over their heads sounded loudly, and Kent, with a muttered exclamation hastened toward the front door of the apartment.Ferguson, intent on studying the "L" of the building as seen from the window, was hardly conscious of his departure, and some seconds elapsed before he turned toward the door.As he gained it, he saw a dark shape dart down the hall.With a bound Ferguson started in pursuit, and the next second grappled with the flying man just as the electric lights went out and they were plunged in darkness.
Suddenly Kent's voice echoed down the hall."Come here quick, Ferguson!"There was a note of urgency about his appeal, and Ferguson straining his muscles until the blood pounded in his temples, threw the struggling man into a tufted arm-chair which stood by the entrance to the small dining room, and drawing out his handcuffs, slipped them on securely."Stay there," Ferguson admonished his prisoner.
